


Tarnished

by bilboswaggins



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Gen, Librarian Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Professor Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 15:08:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20726222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bilboswaggins/pseuds/bilboswaggins
Summary: "Even at its freshest, straight from the pot, the coffee was thick and sludge-like, tasting burnt and so bitter even the cream couldn’t save it. He wasn’t a big believer in bad omens, but that can’t have been a great one."Crowley is a former attorney just now starting a new job as a professor, and he hates every moment of it. Aziraphale - Azira - works as the librarian for the campus library. For some reason, Crowley continually hides out in the library to get away from the school, but he won't tell Azira why.Eventual Ineffable Husbands; Inevitable Gabriel-being-a-Dick, albeit a well-meaning dick.





	Tarnished

**Author's Note:**

> SO. I have absolutely no experience with British Law so we're going to use American law stuff and hope the sentiments translate okay. Hope it works out!
> 
> Shitty coffee: it brings people together.

This coffee was absolutely disgusting.

He glowered down at its dull surface, thick and sticking to the sides of his favourite mug. It tasted old, like it had been made several hours ago, which he knew it couldn’t have been. He’d been one of the first people into the building, making a beeline straight for the lounging room where he could make a pot of mediocre coffee and guzzle the entire thing before anyone else even showed up. He hated sharing.

But even at its freshest, straight from the pot, it was thick and sludge-like, tasting burnt and so bitter even the cream couldn’t save it.

He wasn’t a big believer in bad omens, but that can’t have been a great one.

Crowley sunk down in his desk chair, staring dully at the papers stacked up and ready to go. All he had to do was scoop them under his arm along with the two impossibly heavy books, walk right in, and start talking. In -- he glanced at the clock -- twenty minutes. Maybe some of the overly eager ones were already in their places, setting out .. whatever kids are taking to lectures these days. (Fuck, he felt old.)

They’d hate him in minutes. And that was generous. He wouldn’t allow laptops or cell phones, he’d already decided that. They might not have been around when he was in school like this some twenty years ago, but if they had been, he knew he would have been scrolling through internet pages or doing homework for a class later that day or texting with his friends or something instead of paying attention. He was saving them from themselves, and they would hate him for it. That was fine. He’d’ve hated himself too.

God, this coffee was bad.

He had half a mind to just dump it down the drain, but he didn’t have a lot of options right now. It was too late to run and get real coffee from the place up the road, or to duck into the library to use their overpriced cafe. He’d have to choke it down if he wanted any kind of caffeine boost. He hadn’t slept last night. Nerves, maybe.

Students didn’t do a lot of googling their teachers, right? They can’t care anywhere near that much. Every teacher to them could be like any other, generally pretty interchangeable. This was going to be fine, he was torturing himself over nothing. No one cared. Why should he?

With a grunt, he picked up the syllabus he’d made in a coffee fueled fervor some two weeks ago. It seemed to have everything, right down to what they would study on what date. This was much more organized than he ever was, but it seemed a good thing to do to give the students the option to be on top of things. He’d never taught before, who knew whether he would even stick to the thing.

A bit of dirt fell onto the white paper and he brushed it aside. He glanced up. The plants he’d hung around his office didn’t have many places to choose from. The shoe-box sized room only had a few places that would get enough light, and he wasn’t allowed to drill into the ceiling. (He’d asked. Well. He’d asked after he did one and they said don’t do it again. He’d planned poorly and the one hole he’d drilled was right above where he decided to put the desk, so Harold was going to leak dirt onto his papers every now and then. That was his fault, not the plant’s, so he’d just have to deal with that. Harold got a pass.)

The mister sat underneath the desk, and he bent to pick it up, setting the atrocious cup to the side as he stood. Misting the plants around his office was going to be a necessary calming activity, he could tell. There were twelve of them for now, in varying sizes, and that was just what he could spare from his home. Eventually he’d buy school specific plants. If he lasted that long, anyway.

He spritzed the ones on the windowsill, the flowers blooming brightly in the early morning glow. It was much too early to be up and productive, but Crowley had always been the kind to be up whenever, grab what sleep he could whenever, and not be particularly picky as to when on either of them. The only annoying thing was how bright the sun was in the morning. His sunglasses were still firmly on his face, despite being indoors.

His interview was the only time so far in this building that he’d even taken them off. It had been brief, just about an hour, and he’d put them back on as soon as he walked out of there. For now it would work well to hide the tremendous bags under his eyes that never seemed to go away. Or maybe they’d think he was hung over. Either way was just fine with him.

A quick glance at the clock told him it was now ten til. He needed to get there to set up, to hopefully not feel weird and exposed standing at the desk of a lecture room instead of being slumped over one of the seats for one.

** _Begh._ **

With a heavy sigh, he took his books and papers in one hand and his coffee cup in the other and started for the room.

He was right, a few students were already in there as he walked in, dumping the books unceremoniously on the desk. What chatter had been going on immediately stopped as he looked around for a marker to write with, and he paused, glancing over at the students. There was only six or so, not even a quarter of the total.

“. . You don’t have to stop talking yet, you know. You’ve got a few more minutes of freedom.”

They looked at him with uncertain faces, as though not sure whether it was a joke or a grim warning, and he’d said it so flatly it could have been either. Crowley just shrugged, writing on the board in large, clear letters.

‘PROFESSOR ANTHONY J. CROWLEY

CRIMINAL LAW’

Did he need the subject on there? They clearly knew for what class they were there, but it seemed to look good that way. Some reason for his name to be up there, staring at him. And fuck did it look weird to have ‘Professor’ in front of his name. That title didn’t feel earned at all. His teachers had all felt like they had a reason to have it, but he just felt like he was appropriating it from someone else. Like a coat that didn’t quite fit and was too fancy for him anyway.

He just leaned on the desk, sipping the remains of the coffee, watching as students filed in and stared at him, glancing between each other. He looked odd, he knew. And they would get used to it. But for now, as always, there was the uncomfortable period of looking at a man who didn’t fit the mental image of what a ‘professor’ should look like.

Respect was earned, not given. He’d have to earn the respect of the 20 somethings taking their seats, not just expect it to be given because his name was scrawled on the board and he had a piece of paper hanging on a wall in his office that they didn’t have yet.

It would be fine. Right?

The clock on the desk in front of him struck 8 on the dot, and he stood up straight, facing them all with one hand in his pocket.

“Morning, all. Welcome to our first day at this ungodly hour.” A few scattered sounds of uncertain amusement. “I hope you all know why it is you’re here for the next hour and a half, but in case you don’t, this is Criminal Law.

I don’t pretend to be able to tell you that this is easy stuff, or that you’ll have a better time with it since you’ve watched any tv show with lawyers in it. You won’t. It isn’t. It’s my job to scare you into knowing this stuff, and that’s what you should expect.”

He paused, looking around the room. They were all just.. staring at him. He was used to talking to large groups of people who were staring at him, but this felt odd. This wasn’t for a trial or a quick hearing- this was for one agonizingly long semester. Sixteen weeks of the same faces looking at him with that same blank look.

God, this was a mistake.

“My name is Professor Crowley,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the board behind him. “Saying it is kind of weird, so feel free to drop the ‘Professor’ bit. Crowley. Anthony. Anthony J. Whatever you want is fine. As long as you say it in my general direction, I’ll figure it out.”

He took another sip of the cold drink and flipped the book open to the page he had bookmarked, leaning on the standing desk with one elbow, his hip popped out quite unprofessionally as it always did when he leaned on things.

“Alright. Let’s dive in.”

**

Campus was back in full swing today. The date had been marked on his private calendar at home and in the one in his office, starred with a blue mark that said ‘School’s Back!’

Azira had actually been looking forward to the school year starting up. Libraries on campuses were always so dead when almost no classes were in session, even though it was a public library as much as a private one. During the summer, only the occasional person would show up, mostly oddballs wanting to talk his ear off about how things used to be or how things aren’t good now. He’d smiled and dealt with it for as long as he could, but it usually wasn’t more than fifteen minutes before he was gently detaching himself under some made up guise to go check on something and never come back.

But students, he liked. There was always a few overly eager ones ready to dive in to their studies and needed his help finding books to get ahead. He liked them. But he also liked the more panicked looking ones who had procrastinated until the last minute, begging for his help to finish a paper or project before the due date. Those were a fun challenge, reading and researching on a time crunch was something he got a thrill from. He couldn’t explain it.

When the doors began opening, Azira smiled to himself. Perfect. Another year, here we come.

“Remember to keep an eye out for outside drinks and food,” he gently reminded the student sitting at the desk. She looked exhausted, like she already regretted taking the Monday morning shift.

“You got it, Mr. Fell,” she said vaguely, squinting down at the textbook in front of her.

He smiled again. People were going to slip through the rather large crack her sleepy inattention would make, he knew. But that was alright. He was usually pretty good at finding those people thinking his library was a good place to have their tea and breakfast. He would always remind them that there was a cafe just downstairs with seating, please enjoy themselves there and come back to study here, but always firm. He may be nice, but he was not a pushover.

Polished shoes clicked on the polished floors as Azira walked away from the desk to do another circle of the library. It was much too early for anyone to be in, and he’d just been by the doors and knew no one had been, but he was excited anyway. Before long, he would trust his students to run the desk and get him if they needed anything so he could tuck himself away in his office with a cocoa and a book of his own, but it would be at least a week before he would hermit away like that.

He was fiercely protective of these books, even if they weren’t his. A leftover reaction from when he’d owned a bookshop once upon a time. He missed that sometimes. Often, really. But the times he didn’t catch people before they spilled coffee on the pages of books here, he didn’t feel a devastating loss as he had in his own shop.

Probably for the best.

Up the stairs between the rows of books he went, climbing one story, two, and three. By the time he reached the top he was slightly out of breath, covering his mouth with his hand in embarrassment to keep his pants to himself, despite knowing there was absolutely no one around up there.

Sure enough, as he walked to the row of windows facing the campus, he didn’t hear a thing, didn’t see a single book out of place. No one had been up here since last year.

The light of morning glowed a beautiful orange across the campus, illuminating the trees and brick and asphalt and students shuffling slowly from building to building. It was rather like a painting, he thought. One he might like to have at home to remind himself of peaceful mornings like this. Anything could happen.

And judging by the sound that echoed through the intercoms (‘M-Mister Fell? Um, I uh, I need some help…’) something already had.

Taking a measured breath and one last admiring look out the large windows, he turned around and started to return to the front desk to deal with whatever had gone wrong already.

**

That first class took it out of him. He had no idea how shitty it was to stand at the front of a room and lecture for over an hour. He’d been so cocky thinking he could definitely do it, but his throat felt like sandpaper the moment he closed the book and dismissed the class. Even though the mug had been empty only fifteen minutes in, he’d kept picking it up, like he’d somehow expected it to magically be full again.

Once all the students had left - a few had even stopped to shake his hand and introduce themselves, and he promptly forgot their names the second they said them - he gathered his things and headed for the staff room.

Coffee. Disgusting coffee. He needed more.

As he reached the room, he noticed it had a few other bodies in it by now. Teachers (he supposed) that he didn’t recognize, one lounging with his bag bulging at his feet, neither of them looking at him. The man was already sitting with coffee in his paper cup, and the other was standing right next to the coffee machine, boiling water in an electric kettle.

Perfect. He’d have to  _ interact _ .

Without much ceremony, he nudged around the teacher blocking the coffee machine, holding his mug where the other could clearly see it. “Sorry. Can I just get in there.”

The other teacher turned to him, and he watched as her face went from neutral to mild surprise and confusion.

Yes, yes, he had sunglasses on and a face tattoo, move on.

“Oh. Yes, of course.” She stepped somewhat to the side, just enough for Crowley to reach for the pot of coffee. Almost empty. Shit.

“Are you the new professor this semester?”

Fuck him, she wanted to talk. He stifled a sigh. “Mhm.”

“I read the email notice, but I didn’t think you were going to be so young.”

Crowley’s brows knitted together in his own confusion. He was forty fucking five, not twenty something. He wasn’t young.

“You expected an old man?” He was pouring the liquid as fast as he could, and slopped some onto his shirt. Brilliant. Scowling, he grabbed for a napkin to brush it from his front, knowing it was going to stain.

“Well, with someone with your  _ experience _ , I thought maybe.” She said this rather coolly, and Crowley looked up at her, truly looking at her for the first time.

She had long, dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail which served to harshen the lines of her otherwise soft face. She was somehow angular, but everywhere you looked was just rounded lines and soft angles, like she had all the makings of being pretty, but something about her just seemed unpleasant. Fishy.

Or maybe she was pretty and he just didn't like her.

“If you’ve seen my experience, you’ve looked me up and you’d know I wasn’t old.” He didn’t have time or patience for this. Tossing the wadded up napkin in the bin, he scooped up his mug and prepared to leave.

But one of the other professors in a lounging chair spoke, his voice smooth and crisp. American.

“She’s just being polite. I looked you up when they announced the new hire. I sent a few news articles to the rest of the staff, but none of them had your picture. Professional courtesy.”

Crowley stopped before reaching the door, half-turning to face him. The other man had smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Times like this he was grateful he wore his sunglasses all the time - they really prevented anyone from seeing how much he was truly glowering at them with anger in his eyes.

Already. Al-fucking-ready with this.

“You sent  _ news articles _ to everyone? Fancy yourself some kind of workplace vigilante?” His words were more venomous sounding than he’d intended, but he was feeling defensive. He knew he’d have to deal with that at some point, but not now. It was much too soon.

“As a matter of routine we take a look at what any new teacher has done,” the man said, pleasant and responsive, much less aggressive than Crowley’s tone. If anything, that made him angrier. “And I thought I’d seen your name somewhere, you’re pretty well known!”

“Glad you’ve done your homework.” Crowley deadpanned. It was somewhat threatening that everyone in this room seemed to know his name, know who he was, and he had absolutely no idea who these people were. Maybe he should have done some research.

Something about that man’s face bothered him; so pleasant and handsome and yet so very  _ punchable _ .

“Bye.”

Without giving another opportunity for them to speak or even introduce themselves, Crowley held tightly to his mug and walked briskly out of there, straight for the stairs to go to his office and shut himself inside.

“Shitshitshit _ shitshit _ -” he hissed to himself, dumping his things with a loud thump on the desk. One class period. He’d only had one bloody class period of calm before it was dangled in front of him that quite possibly - probably? - the entire fucking staff knew of his.. History.

That was the last thing he needed. He took this job in part to get away from all of that, to do something that would be good for his soul, as cheesy as it sounded to admit to himself. Dealing with fellow colleagues -  _ peers _ \- who were so petty as to send out  _ notices _ about him-

And what kind of person did that, anyway?

Just like that, without even a whisper of actual confrontation, he was mentally crossing out large swatches of the school to never go, ever. Staff room? Not a chance. Communal kitchen? Absolutely not. He would bring a coffee pot for his office. Make his own shitty coffee without needing to see anyone. Outside of office hours for his students, he wouldn’t even be at his desk if he could help it. He could do his work elsewhere. Eat .. somewhere. He just needed an outlet and fucking silence, where other professors definitely wouldn’t be going.

. . . But. Where?

**

It was surprising that anyone still needed microfilm anymore, but Azira had helped solve that issue in just under three hours. An interesting start to the school year, digging through dusty plastic sheets to find a specific newspaper article from several decades ago. It had apparently never been digitized and it was a matter of ‘life and death’ to find it immediately according to the poor overly dramatic student. But it was a good example of what he loved to do: tackle problems that needed solving.

And of course he hovered close at hand to make sure none of the plastic sheets got fingerprints or dirt on them and the machine was still pristine by the time the student left with his copies.

Azira fixed his waistcoat as he finished climbing the stairs back to the second floor, doing another walkthrough of the shelves. By now, a few students had made their way inside, setting up what Azira mentally affectionately referred to as ‘nests.’ Laptop open, water bottle in arm’s reach, pencil case unzipped and colours spilling out, highlighters and books and notebooks spread about - and the student typing away at their phone instead of reading.

It made him smile.

He didn’t interrupt, simply walked along to be sure there were no errant coffee cups hiding anywhere. The floor seemed so far so good, just as he’d left it.

As he ascended the third floor, he did notice something off.

Was that… _ crunching _ ?

Brow furrowing in annoyance, the librarian whipped his head in the direction of one of the secluded tables, a figure hunched over it with his back to him.

Azira approached quietly, peering at the man. He definitely had a faded mug of coffee next to him, against the rules, and he seemed to be munching mixed nuts from a plastic bag. Next to that was a grocery plastic bag with a few other random food items inside, all pre-wrapped, industrial. Azira’s nose wrinkled - those would leave grease spots for sure.

“Excuse me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The man was buried in his laptop, those damned-near invisible earbuds in his ears, now that he could see a little more clearly. Of course. Azira tapped him on the shoulder and tried again. “Excuse me.”

Starting, the man turned to look at him with his brow furrowed as well, almost like he was insulted anyone would  _ dare  _ interrupt him. Oh- those glasses he had on were .. sunglasses? Indoors? Really? The light from the windows up here wasn’t  _ that _ bright. He must be hungover.

The man pulled the earbud from his ear. “What?”

“You can’t eat in here.” Azira said, firmly. “Or drink. We only allow water.” He gestured vaguely to the cup.

“How about sludge.” The man grimaced, pushing the bag of nuts back into his grocery bag. “The food I’ll give you, that’s on me. Fine.”

Azira put on his ‘Librarian’ tone, his hands clasping behind his back and a polite but not wholly sincere smile on his face. “There’s a cafe in the basement if you want to-”

“Oh no, absolutely not,” the man interrupted, turning more to face him by draping one of his arms over the back of the chair. He looked relaxed, like he owned the place, but Azira was positive he’d never seen him in here before. “I could run into students down there.”

“Oh. Are you a teacher?” He asked, looking surprised. This man didn’t look like one, with his leather jacket and - was that a tie or a scarf tied around his neck like that?

“That’s what they tell me,” the man responded, looking fairly grumpy about it. “Food I’ll give you, I’ll do that somewhere else, but let me keep the sludge, eh? Took forever smuggling it out of the building, it’s already getting cold, and I’m not going on another odyssey to get more.”

“This isn’t a negotiation--” Azira huffed, his smile falling away. How annoying.

“I know! I know. I just thought, you know, as a favour. I’m new, figuring it out, and I can NOT stand another second in that building.”

“What building?”

“The law one.” He sounded annoyed again, like the very existence of the building annoyed him.

“It’s the first day, what could they have done to you already?”

Azira blinked as the man seemed to deflate, the cool posture and attitude dropping just enough for him to see how tired he looked. A tired that went down deep. He actually felt a twinge of pity for him, and he wasn’t sure why. After all, he was drinking coffee in  _ his  _ library.

“.. I’m sorry, but rules are rules. I can’t let you have that up here with the books.”

The man puffed out a breath and shut his laptop, looking resigned. “. . But,” Azira continued, and the man paused, still not looking at him. “You can come have it in my office, if you like. I’ve got biscuits. And a tea maker.”

He stared at him, or he thought he did considering the glasses, and seemed to turn things over in thought. What could he be weighing? Dumping his coffee down the drain versus a few minutes of polite conversation? Was he that antisoc-

“Okay.” He picked up his laptop and his bag of food in one hand and stood up, facing him. Oh. He was taller than he’d thought.

“Okay. Right. .. Good.” Azira smiled, a fluttering and almost uncertain smile, but more genuine than the last. “Let’s take the elevator, I don’t want anyone else seeing you walking about with a mug and thinking they can get away with it.”

The man gave an amused sort of smirk, but shrugged a shoulder. “Fair enough. Lead the way then, Mister..?”

Oh. Oh he hadn’t thought to introduce himself. “Ah-- Fell. Azira’s fine.”

“Azira,” the man repeated under his breath, as though intentionally committing the name to his memory. He didn’t blame him, if he was a teacher he’d probably have many names that would come and go from his memory.

“Crowley,” he offered, distracted. Crowley? Was that a first name or last name? He couldn’t tell, but it didn’t really matter. Names were names. He held the elevator door for the man - Crowley - as he entered after him, and pushed the little button for the first floor, back to his office.

The doors slowly slid closed, the bright daylight from the wide windows the last thing he saw before they slid shut and let the two of them alone.


End file.
